


Impulses

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Episode: 2015 Xmas Sherlock Christmas Special, First Kiss, Fix-It, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, Love, M/M, Making Love, Past Drug Use, Protective Mycroft, Romance, Sentiment, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, The Abominable Bride, The Nightwatch Talk, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's talk about 'impulses' in The Abominable Bride' was touching and rather interesting. This is my take and one possible outcome when John and Sherlock talk about feelings and impulses, and maybe act on them, too...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man to Man

John Watson lifted his chin, his eyes fixed on Sherlock Holmes sitting opposite him on a wooden crate, his long legs outstretched towards Watson.

'You must have ...' he hesitated, narrowing his eyes, aiming at nonchalance, his determination ever so slightly wavering, '... a past?'

'A past?' Holmes' voice was low, but the frown knitting his brows was as much audible as it was visible in the gloom of the garden shed.

'Yes, you must have had - experiences?'

'Experiences?'

Watson sat forward a bit, moving into the dim light falling through the dusty windows. The moonlight shining through the panes painted a delicate pattern on Holmes' face, the shadows dancing daintily when the wind disturbed the branches of the big elm tree outside. He saw Holmes biting his lip, obviously waiting for Watson to continue.

'Well, you're a man, you must have impulses!'

Holmes scoffed and snarled, 'Never in my life have I wanted more to be attacked by a murderous ghost.'

The reply had been as quick as it had been cutting and Holmes was quite sure that it would be enough to put an end to the disconcerting turn their amiable talk had taken.

Watson sat back, the shadow hiding the smile on his face. Holmes risked a quick glance at him before he let his gaze travel outside, over the vast expanse of lawn on to the manor house, lying in darkness now, peaceful and silent, He sighed. No ghost or murderess in sight, not even an industrious little footboy bringing some refreshments, nothing to distract Watson, nothing to alleviate the tension.

He glanced at his trusted colleague - and friend - again. Watson's face was still hidden in the shadows, but his hands were clearly visible, strong, warm hands, resting lightly on his thighs, the index finger of his right hand slowly drawing circles on the chequered tweed of his trousers. Holmes scoffed. When Watson spoke again, his voice was low.

'I have them too, you know.' Two fingers drawing circles now and Holmes could not help following this movement with his eyes. Mesmerising, it was, and to his dismay, he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the sturdy digits, caressing the tweed in a strong and assured motion. 'Impulses, Sherlock.'

Hearing Holmes' sharp intake of breath at the mention of his Christian name Watson took courage and sat forward. Holmes' face, lit by the moonlight, was quite different now, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted.

'John,' he said, the biting sharpness of a moment gone entirely from his voice, and hearing Sherlock say his name for the first time was sending shivers across John's skin.

And Sherlock was close, much closer than he had thought possible and so he placed both hands on his thighs, aroused by the heat of Sherlock's skin seeping through the thin wool cloth. He felt the muscles tightening, felt the tension in Sherlock's legs. Slowly he let his fingers travel upwards, only momentarily hindered by the voluminous travel coat Sherlock had chosen to wear. One by one his fingers crawled underneath the woollen cloth until they rested firmly on both his upper thighs.

'John,' Sherlock repeated, his voice low and hoarse. He opened his eyes, 'This is really not a convenient time.'

'Probably not,' John nodded and cleared his throat, his fingers not budging one bit, 'But I'm sure the great Sherlock Holmes will be able to keep an eye on the manor house and ...'

'And - what?'

' _And_ act on his impulses.'

Sherlock sat back a bit, trying to school his features, trying to regain command over the situation.

'I'm sorry to inform you, John, that I don't have _impulses_ , as you so delicately put it.'

John was inching towards him, closing the gap once more, determined to unsettle him just a bit more, his fingers slowly moving closer to Sherlock's groin, gently probing.  
'Then you're a liar.'

Sherlock held his gaze, one, two seconds, his skin tingling and his cheeks burning, but then he squirmed, trying to hide his embarrassment, shying away from his all too blatant desire. John tilted his head and looked at him. When he saw unease flickering over his face he immediately drew back.

'I'm sorry,' John cleared his throat, He straightened his back and slapping his hands on his thighs, he created some distance again. 'It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable, I was just ...'

Suddenly Sherlock tensed and his eyes widened. He sat up straight, staring past John at something outside.

'What?' John craned his neck, but he could not make out anything. 'What is it?'

With his usual grace and confidence back in place Sherlock got up and with two quick strides he was at the door and outside, leaving John no choice but to follow him across the lawn towards the ghostly yellow light flickering in the court of the manor house.

'Impulses, eh?' John breathlessly muttered to himself, trying to keep up with Sherlock, quickened his pace. Suddenly Sherlock had vanished from sight and John hastened to find him again. Panting with the exertion he turned a corner and bumped into Sherlock who must have stopped quite abruptly. Anger rose in him, to be stopped ungracefully like that, but there was no time to act on that anger as all he was able to feel all of a sudden were two strong hands gently cupping his face and then soft lips on his lips, the most fleeting touch only, but it was there, Oh God, it was there!

'Impulses, John,' he heard and then Sherlock Holmes was dashing off again in the pursuit of the murderous bride, his dark coat billowing out dramatically behind him, and all that was left to John Watson was to happily follow him.


	2. A Dashing Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I could not leave the boys alone in their Victorian misery, so here's me taking advantage of my (rediscovered) inspiration to continue writing about John and Sherlock and their clash with 'impulses'. Enjoy reading! As always, feedback is very much loved and appreciated :)
> 
> Please note: Although I use the Victorian setting as a background for this fic, I won't make use of the various layers of the episode 'The Abominable Bride', mixing past and present (- or will I? ;)

John's heart was beating too fast. Of course it was, as he was still reeling from the shock of witnessing the murder of Sir Eustace Carmichael and his widow's pain. Sherlock's dismay and confusion came back to him, his own panic when confronted with the ghostly bride, fluttering through the air like tiny particles of ash, darkening his vision.

Another memory flitted about his brain like a flash, making his skin tingle and his breath hitch in his throat, the memory of soft lips and warm hands, a memory, unbidden and bright, but fleeting. John closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back into the comfortable padding of the seat, trying to hold on to this memory just a little bit longer.

Without regret they had left the country behind and were now on their way back to London, the steam engine greedily devouring mile after mile, putting more and more distance between themselves and the murder they had not been able to prevent. They had a first class carriage to themselves and Sherlock was sitting opposite John, huddled in his travel coat, fairly melting into the headrest of the comfortable seat. He was staring through the misted-up window at the blurry world outside or maybe he was listening to the world within himself, John could not be entirely sure what he was doing. There never was such a thing as _sure_ with Sherlock, and this nagging feeling of insecurity pained him. He seemed particularly drawn into himself after yesterday's events and John had to admit to himself that he was worried.

'Ghosts,' he heard Sherlock muttering softly after a while. 'Nothing but ghosts.'

John tilted his head to the side and frowned. 'There are no ghosts, Sherlock.' Using his friend's Christian name still felt alien, so very intimate, and John hesitated a second before he continued. 'You said so yourself, remember? On our journey to the manor, on the train, you were chastising me.' John drew a breath, 'And you were rather adamant.'

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes lighting up as if seeing him only now, as if remembering that he was in fact not alone in this carriage.

'True, John,' he said softly, his lips curling into a sad little smile, 'So very true. However, I wasn't talking about your common footman's or maid's belief of a ghost, a spirit or a spectre just now. I was talking about the ghosts we make for ourselves.'

'Ourselves?' John frowned, 'I don't quite see ...'

'No, of course you don't. How could you?' Again, there was this little smile before Sherlock fell quiet and turned to the window again, his pale reflection shimmering ghostly in the pane. With a sigh he leaned his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes.

John's eyes followed Sherlock's movement and he noticed that it had started to rain. The raindrops where chasing each other across the window outside, a merry little race, quite in contrast to the sombre mood which had settled over the carriage. John licked his lips and turned his gaze back to Sherlock, telling himself that it was his duty to watch over him today.

 

*

 

The hansom cab took them swiftly home through misty London air. Baker Street was gloomy and deserted at this late afternoon hour, but a gas lamp right outside 221b offered enough illumination for John and Sherlock to pay the driver and to hand their luggage to Billy, Mrs Hudson's footboy. Though he was excitedly bustling around them, keen to get some first-hand news, Sherlock only briefly smiled at him, patting him absent-mindedly on the back before he dashed though the door and up the stairs. As so often before he left it entirely to John to collect the rest of their luggage and then follow, satisfying Billy's queries on the way up the stairs, relating their latest adventure.

 

 

***

 

 

They finally cracked the case - or rather Sherlock did - a few days later, discovering that the culprits for the murders, including Sir Eustace Carmichael, were a kind of cult of avenging women, punishing men who had severely mistreated them. A haunting case it had been, and surprisingly Sherlock had decided that that they would keep the whole extent of the matter to themselves, no doubt to keep Lady Carmichael and other valued ladies safe from the repercussions of the law.

John was more than glad when he was finally able to put this case to rest by immortalising their version of the truth in _The Strand_.

 

*

 

'Busy?'

'I'm just about finished writing up our latest adventure.' John's tongue slipped out and wetted his lips, his eyes focusing on pages densely covered in his spidery handwriting. The leather-bound journal was lying open on his lap and his fountain pen, held between index finger and thumb, was poised in mid-air like a painter's brush waiting to place the finishing touch. Sherlock briefly smiled and sat down opposite John in his own chair, the heavy blue velvet dressing gown falling open, revealing a charcoal grey waistcoat and cravat with matching trousers and a white shirt, all crisp and immaculate.

Bending to the side to fill his pipe, he was startled by the sight of a little brown box, lined with bright blue satin and holding a syringe and small bottle of morphine, and unobtrusively he pushed it aside, covering it with today's newspaper. He glanced at John who was too occupied to have noticed and sighed a small sigh of relief. Briskly he filled his pipe with some tobacco from the Persian slipper. A thought occurred to him, making him hesitate.

'Modified to put it down as one of my rare failures, of course?'

'Of course.'

'Have you decided on a title yet?'

'No.'

'What about ... _The Adventures of the Invisible Army_?'

John huffed and, never once looking up at Sherlock, he lowered the pen to the paper, adding another note to the margins.

 _'The League of Furies_?'

 _'The Monstrous Regiment_?'

'I rather thought - _The Abominable Bride_.'

'Ah! A trifle lurid, don't you think?'

Sherlock struck a match and lit his pipe, and after it had caught, he exhaled a fragrant plume of smoke.

'It'll sell. It's right up _The Strand_ 's street, so to speak, there's passion, there's murder and ... there's a dashing hero.'

'John, really. Despite my 'failure' to solve the case? A dashing hero? That's how you see me?'

'No! That's how you see yourself.'

'Wrong,' Sherlock said sharply. 'That's not all how I see me. Not at all - If you knew what makes me ...' he stopped abruptly and sat back, sucking on his pipe, the billowing smoke obscuring parts of his face. John looked up and stopped writing. He closed his journal and laid it on the little side table, carefully placing the fountain pen on top of it. He fixed his eyes on Sherlock.

'What?' He asked. 'What is it? What _makes_ you?'

Sherlock glanced away, biting his lip. 'For God's sakes, John, you must see, mustn't you? I'm not a hero. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them...' He halted and frowned, confusion taking hold of him. ' _You_ are making a hero out of me, garnishing my - _our_ \- cases with frills and thrills, making my behaviour palatable whereas in reality I'm barely passing as normal, as human.' John began shaking his head, the urge to interrupt this tirade written plainly on his face, but Sherlock lifted his hand, stopping him. 'I'll tell you what I am. I'm an unprincipled drug addict. Getting my kicks from solving crimes in an attempt to avoid surrendering completely to my demons. Dashing about, as you love to romanticise it, in order not to give in to my dark side.'

'Sherlock,' John sat forward, trying to come closer. ' _What_ made you like this?'

'Oh, John,' Sherlock put his pipe aside, sat back and steepled his fingers underneath his chin. 'Nothing made me. _I_ made me.'

'Why?'

Sherlock held John's gaze, but did not reply.

'You're not alone, you know.'

'Am I not?' Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'I fear, I very much am, John.'

'What about ...?'

'What about _what_?'

John cleared his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck. 'At the manor. You ... kissing me?'

Sherlock was silent. He let his hands slowly sink to the armrest of his chair. 'An impulse, John. Nothing but an impulse.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, there's going to be a resolution to this predicament - in the final/next chapter(s)!  
> Thank you all so much for kudos, comments, reviews and of course for reading this little fic :)
> 
> JJ xx


	3. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, as long as there's inspiration, I'll write ... and I hope you don't mind getting another chapter so soon ;)

'No!'

'No?'

'I said it before and I will say it again. You're a liar, Sherlock.'

Sherlock slowly shook his head, disappointment apparent on his face. With a sigh he made to get up.

'You are _not_ running away now. Not this time.' John's voice was commanding, his face animated and handsome, and Sherlock hesitated. Before John continued, he had to close his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts, his left hand flexing without him noticing. Sherlock watched, entranced, and then observed him sitting forward, effectively blocking his escape route. 'No, I said. You are not running away and you are going to listen to me for once.'

Sherlock arched his brow, but abandoned his attempt to flee and leaned back in his chair. He opened his arms wide, resigning to the situation and granting John permission to continue. 'Go on.'

John cleared his throat, his jaw muscles working around the words before he forced them out. 'You're a man, Sherlock.'

'A very astute observation.'

'Yes - Well, yes, it is.' John was flustered and that's not at all what Sherlock wanted, so he gently added. 'Please, go on.'

'As I said, you're a man, made of flesh and blood, with a past, with urges and impulses. I know that you have feelings, it's obvious for everyone who cares to look. And I do care, Sherlock. I've discovered long ago that you repress your emotions, even your impulses. _The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment_ \- I know, I know, it was _me_ who wrote those words, remember, but somehow _you_ took to quoting them. I won't pretend that I understand why you are the way you are, but I know that I want to.' He hesitated, and Sherlock feared he had lost him, but John bravely ploughed on. 'I'm not a man of great words, I have a way with them when I put our stories down on paper, yes, but having a conversation about ... ' he waved his hand vaguely in Sherlock's direction, '... is an entirely different matter. Believe me, this is hard, very hard for me. But I feel that something has to be done. I can't in all eternity deny what I feel is the truth and the right thing to do.' He drew a deep breath, 'Right - I want to know what _made_ you and what _makes_ you, I want to be the one you talk to, the one you turn to, I want to be the one who helps you, who holds you. I want to be with you. Now and forever.' John exhaled shakily, sure that he had gone too far, that he had overdone it, that it was all over.

Sherlock's eyes had widened and his face had lost this haughty, impassive look. All of a sudden the air seemed to be trembling around him and a flush was creeping up his neck and painted a rosy hue on his cheeks while his eyes became glassy, unfocused, faraway.

'Sherlock?' Fear rippled through John, and he got up to kneel down in front of him. 'Are you all right? Please?'

Sherlock blinked and slowly moved his head to the right, then to the left, taking in John kneeling in front of him, their surroundings, their living room in all its Victorian splendour, noticing with acute clarity the date on the calendar on the mantlepiece - _08 Jan 1895_ \- before his eyes sought and found John. A smile lit up his face. 'It's true,' he said.

John tilted his head to the side, a quizzical expression on his face, and then he suddenly lurched when the room tilted to the side. He grabbed Sherlock's knees to steady himself. 'Yes,' he panted. 'Yes, it's true, it always has been.'

'I needed to know,' Sherlock whispered, quickly glancing to the side, realising that the air was buzzing with electricity and the fire seemed to be hissing orange-blue flames. 'It was the only way.'

'What?' John held on tight to Sherlock's legs as the room began to shake and he was jolted to the side. 'What ... the only way?'

Sherlock grabbed John's lapels and drew him upwards and onto his lap. He smiled at him and when they kissed, the world around them collapsed.

 

 

**************

 

 

'Mary?' John asked.

'Mary's been taken care of. She won't be bothering either of you again.'

'Thank you,' John smiled at Mycroft Holmes, but then his gaze was irresistibly drawn back to Sherlock, lying immobile in the hospital bed. His face was pale, his skin fine like marble, blueish veins visible in his temple, and in stark contrast to his dark curls fanning out on the cushion. John noticed that he was very skinny, to the point of emaciation, and his body contours were clearly visible underneath the hospital linen. Dark smudges underneath his eyes spoke of the physical pain of the last days and weeks as much as of the inner turmoil he had been through, causing him to overdose. John cleared his throat and fought hard to suppress the tears of violent anger and pain he felt welling up. He sniffed, berating himself, trying to control his emotions. He would deal with his own part in this and with his bad conscience later.

'Don't you worry, John.' Mycroft said, and his tone of voice was so gentle that both Sherlock and John looked over to the older Holmes brother who was standing with his back to the window. It seemed to be an oddly general, but also reassuring turn of phrase, covering a multitude of things, ranging from Sherlock's condition to their being together and everything else that had happened in the past weeks.

'You will be both fine.' He smiled thinly, taking two steps towards them and continued. 'There was never a chance for Mary to get away. Rest assured that everyone who makes the mistake of hurting my little brother will get their reckoning. It's an inconceivable thought that ...' He straightened his back, controlling himself, and his eyes settled on his brother. Clasping his hands behind his back he added softly. 'You know, I was always there for you, Sherlock and I always will be.'

John gulped around a lump in his throat, glancing away, but he felt Sherlock groping for his hand, and so he grabbed his cold fingers and squeezed them reassuringly.

'Well, now that everything's sorted to everyone's convenience, I will leave you two to it.' Mycroft nodded at the two men and briskly turned away to leave the room.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said quietly into the room and looking at his brother's retreating form, he could not help but notice a slight hesitation in the tensing of his back. 'I don't have the words, I ...' his voice broke. Mycroft turned back to the hospital bed and all of a sudden he bent down to Sherlock and at the same time Sherlock's arms came up and the Holmes brothers held each other in an embrace for a very long moment.

 

*******

 

'I can't believe you actually overdosed,' John shook his head, a motion lost on Sherlock who was lying next to him on the bed, his eyes closed, trying to find some rest. 'I am still so bloody pissed with you, you know. Don't think just because we're ... You really have to find a way ...'

'I could not cope.' Sherlock spoke softly, interrupting him. 'I could not fathom losing you again, letting you go back to Mary, who had shot me, and who had been teaming up with Moriarty behind our backs the whole time. Knowing that you're not safe and that I was to be sent away, never to ...' he shrugged helplessly, the words escaping him, and John turned to face Sherlock. Leaning on his elbow he looked down at him.

'I know.' Placing a hand on Sherlock's chest, he covered his heart, feeling the steady du-dum - du-dum - du-dum through the thin fabric of Sherlock's shirt. 'I felt the same. Even though I could not admit it to myself. False obligations, marriage vows, till death do us part ... _Jesus_ , I was so blind.'

'Clearly,' Sherlock dryly said and John chuckled. 'If it's any consolation I was quite slow catching up myself. I had to go deep into myself. I had to go way back, had to retreat into my mind palace to work it out and ... ' he glanced at John, unwilling to bring up the role drugs had played in this yet again. 'Well, it's over now.'

'Yes,' John conceded, moving his fingers along Sherlock's chest, letting them slip through the gap between the shirt buttons, gently caressing the warm skin underneath. 'There's one thing you haven't told me, though,' John turned his head and locked eyes with Sherlock. 'What exactly brought you back from this nightmare? We could have easily lost you, you know. So, what was it?'

'You don't know?'

'No,' John shook his head.

'Your confession brought me back - and our kiss.'

John's fingers stilled and for a moment there was nothing but peaceful silence surrounding them. 'I confessed my love? In 1895?' And when Sherlock nodded, he answered him with a smile which was open and warm and one of the most beautiful things Sherlock had ever seen. 'I really did? And we kissed?'

Another nod.

'It must have been quite an earth-shattering kiss to bring you back from the brink of death.'

'Well...' now it was Sherlock's turn to smile, albeit shyly and with a visible blush creeping up his neck. 'And then we finally talked.'

'Yeah, so we did,' John nodded again, the smile still firmly on his face. 'Although, I have to admit I was sure it was the aftermath of the overdose, the drugs talking, you know. It just couldn't be true, it was so unlike you...'

'Clearly,' Sherlock interrupted again, still not overly keen to discuss his emotions, and covered John's hand on his chest with his own, willing to alleviate his briskness.

'It's all right, though?' John sounded insecure, and Sherlock averted his eyes because this sentiment seemed to be mirroring his own constant state of mind since he had come back and his world had turned upside down. But he was sick and tired of feeling insecure. He locked eyes with John again, taking stock of the beautiful dark blue eyes, the laughter lines around them and the slight tan that never seemed to leave his face. 'It's more than all right, it's exactly what I wanted.'

'Good, that's very good.' John's heart started beating faster and he felt nervousness taking hold of him, but there was no way he would stop now. 'About that earth-shattering kiss,' he said. 'Ready to go again?'

Sherlock smiled his lopsided smile, a smile reaching his eyes and transforming his face entirely. A very rare occurrence and therefore all the more precious for John. 'Obviously!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, one more (and very likely sexy) chapter to go, I think!  
> Thank you very, very much for all your feedback. It is loved and highly appreciated :)  
> JJ xx


	4. Urges

The smile slowly died on Sherlock's face and he glanced away. How he wanted to touch John, hold him, kiss him, love him - but he was scared. He scoffed, berating himself, telling himself that he was a grown man, that this was not the first time he enjoyed intimacy and sex, that he felt so much for John, that it would be child's play. Oh, yes, his mind was able to rationalise all these points, yet recognise the fear holding him back.

Again he made an attempt to smile the fear away, but failed miserably. Sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor, he turned away from John, his cheeks burning.

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing's _wrong_.' Sherlock's fingers worried the hem of his shirt, nervousness fluttering its tiny wings in his chest like a caged bird. 'I guess I'm more scared than I imagined I would be, that's all.'

'Scared of what?'

'Of not being able to handle this.' A vague wave of a pale hand, indicating John, the bed, the flat.

'There's nothing to - _handle_ ,' John shuffled inelegantly over the sheets and moved to the side of the bed where he sat down next to Sherlock, their thighs touching, their bare feet on the cold wooden floor. 'Just go for it, I guess.'

'Oh... '

'Don't think, just ... feel.'

'Well, you would be more of an expert on that one, John.'

'Watch it!'

'Right,' Sherlock's face softened. 'I'm sorry.'

'No, don't! Don't apologise for being you, after all it's what I fell in love with...' John broke off.

Sherlock bit his lips, staring ahead, not quite ready to meet John's eyes - He had done it again, effortlessly, had confessed his love just as he had done in his mind palace. But here in this room, unlike in 1895 when his mind had controlled the situation, he had less say in the matter and John would certainly expect him to reciprocate, wouldn't he? That would be the normal thing to do. Simply say, _I love you too_ -

Sherlock cleared his throat, buying time, still not able to face John. He opened his mouth, stammering, but no coherent sentence would form, the words, the sentiment, all was there, firmly located in his heart, but stubbornly refusing to be released. Instead he enveloped John's hand in his own. 'Clearly,' he merely said.

John turned to him, not taken aback by Sherlock's reaction. Not at all. He knew him like no one else did and had not expected him to suddenly be all about feelings. John knew how hard it was for himself, this _being open_.

It was all right as it was, as so much had already been given to him. His eyes fell on Sherlock's hand holding his own, his thumb drawing little circles onto his skin, a simple act of giving and allowing intimacy. And he loved being able to admire Sherlock openly and to say _good riddance_ to furtive glances and guilty feelings, no more hiding now. He had always particularly loved his fine, pale skin, and as he observed him now, the flush on his cheeks, the dark curls framing his angular face, his hair longer than usual and in disarray, he was simply happy.

Sherlock was composed enough now to notice John's gaze, the close scrutiny, of course he did, but he found that he did not mind at all, and with a small, genuine smile he invited John, who shuffled closer and placed a tentative kiss on his long, pale neck.

'It's going to be all right,' he whispered and kissed his neck again, almost unable to hold back, but restricting himself to small, undemanding kisses. 'Just let go...'

He nuzzled Sherlock's neck, widening his nostrils, and inhaled his scent, the fresh smell of his skin mixed with the lemony tang of his aftershave. Sherlock slowly let his head fall back, exposing himself and John accepted what was given to him, kissing the warm skin, covering his neck with open-mouthed kisses, hungry and eager. Every freckle, every mole, every line.

Sherlock leaned back, and John understood. He got up and straddled Sherlock who moaned softly when he felt John's weight on his upper thighs. He shuffled further back onto the bed, both hands firmly on John's hips, taking him with him. 'Oh God,' John gasped.

Sherlock's lips parted, his breath coming faster, his pupils completely dilated and his skin flushed. 'This is ...' he whispered hoarsely '...good.'

Then he leaned forward and kissed John, hard and urgent, and John answered this kiss just as eager. After a moment, Sherlock's lips fully parted and their tongues meeting, touching, licking and tasting, it felt as if all restraints fell off them. They kissed and kissed, making up for lost time, exploring each other, enjoying closeness, passion, love. None too gently Sherlock grabbed John's hips to bring them closer together. John groaned when their hips began moving together in a sloppy rhythm, but the position was not ideal, not what Sherlock wanted.

'Wait,' he panted between kisses and moved to the edge of the bed. He placed his feet on the floor and settled John firmly onto his lap. For a moment they both stilled, their arousals touching, blood rushing through their veins and pooling in their groins. Tentatively Sherlock moved his hips again, slowly dragging his pelvis back and forth, but it wasn't right either and he impatiently clicked his tongue.

'It's not ...' he said and 'Get up!'

John just smiled, happy to see him comfortable enough to take control of the situation, and followed his command. Sherlock got up as well and stood next to the bed, impatiently pushing some curls off his forehead. Then he was standing there, both hands settling on his bony hips, the fingers splayed, and John's attention was irresistibly drawn to his arousal, more than evident in his tight suit trousers. John licked his lips, unable to tear his gaze away. He lightly cupped the bulge in his own trousers, growing more impatient with Sherlock, who was undoubtedly busy assessing the countless possibilities open to them.

'Get _bloody_ on with it!'

A brief, lopsided smile danced over Sherlock's face, but then he lightly touched John's arm and indicated the wooden headboard of the bed.

'Like that,' he said and made John sit on the bed, his back propped comfortably against the headboard, before he straddled him.

'God...' John muttered when Sherlock carefully lowered himself until they were connected again and he moved his hips, snapping them forward and backwards, agonisingly slow and far too tentative at first. 'Better ...' Sherlock murmured and smiled at John who fell into Sherlock's rhythm, their hips rolling, their breath coming faster. 'Yes...' John moaned, answered far too soon by Sherlock's annoying, 'Not enough...'

'No, Sherl ...wha'?'

John found that he was slowly growing incapable of coherent speech and increasingly annoyed by those interruptions. Sherlock briefly kissed him and then, lifting his bum off John's legs, he leaned back. His face was flushed, his cheeks mottled with colour and where John had kissed his neck, there were little pink spots. His black curls were in disarray, dishevelled, undisciplined, out of control. He was quite possibly the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

'Gorgeous,' John said and carded his fingers through the mass of black silky hair. Sherlock smiled and blushed even more. 'So are you,' he admitted and tried to kiss John while his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

'Let me,' John mumbled and took over from Sherlock's fingers to swiftly unbutton his shirt, one, two, three, four and then the last button. John slipped both hands inside the shirt, the first touch of the hot skin electrifying. The soft fabric rustled and brushed gently against Sherlock's skin, an odd sensation, exciting and new. Sherlock did not take off the shirt completely, but let it merely fall over his shoulders.

Involuntarily John licked his lips again. His let his eyes travel over the alabaster skin and the perfectly sculpted chest and belly, skinny, but muscular, the underlying strength apparent. Fine silvery lines, strangely reminiscent of a spider's web, were visible on his chest and John lifted a finger to trace the fine scars. Sherlock sharply drew in a breath, and John's finger stilled.

'Serbia,' Sherlock said. 'I'll tell you some other time.'

'Yeah - right,' John said, almost inaudibly, and Sherlock looked at him, narrowing his eyes. Surprisingly he was unable to clearly read John's face. He discerned arousal, but also sadness, there was fascination and something else he had never seen before, and he found that John hesitated a fraction of a second too long for Sherlock's liking.

'Not now, I said. We've wasted too much time already.'

John huffed, 'Bloody right.'

Sherlock placed both hands either side of John's head on the wooden headboard, splaying his fingers. Squaring his shoulders he offered his naked chest. The vulnerability he felt offering himself like this was very exciting, and when he breathed slowly through his mouth, never before felt arousal claimed him, making his skin tingle, his scalp prickle and his nipples stand erect. John's breath on his skin was rapid and hot, lips closing around one nipple, sucking, a tongue caressing. Sherlock arched his back and moaned, the movement of his hips against John's picking up speed.

'Wait,' John gasped. 'Wait ...'

Sherlock clicked his tongue, unwilling to hold back any longer. John fumbled between them, freeing them both and when he took them both in his hand, Sherlock let his head fall forward, closing his eyes, giving himself entirely to the moment.

 

 

*******

 

 

Sherlock absolutely refused to acknowledge the daylight seeping through the crack in the curtain, blasted sunrays tickling him, teasing and coaxing him away from last night and back to reality. He firmly closed his eyes, trying to shut the light out. But he had never been a good sleeper and once he was awake there usually was no finding back to sleep for him.

Drowsily he yawned, enjoying the pleasant and warm heaviness of his limbs, even the slight soreness he experienced. Suddenly restless he rolled onto his back, theatrically sighing, and when this did not earn him a reaction, he stretched his legs and arms, elegantly like a cat, languid and unashamed.

'Oh - just go away,' he growled, flopping back onto his side, curling back around John who was lying next to him.

'What're you talkin' 'bout,' John mumbled sleepily into his pillow.

'Blasted daylight,' Sherlock answered, sniffing John's sleep-warm skin. He kissed his shoulder blade and up his neck, burying his nose deep in John's hair, inhaling the faint trace of his shampoo mingling with the exciting scents of last night.

'Let's not get up. Let's stay here all day.'

'Fine by me,' John said, already drifting back to sleep.

'Good,' Sherlock said, 'that's good.'

Absent-mindedly his fingers trailed up and down John's chest before his hand came to rest over John's heart. He felt the steady and reassuring thudding, felt his chest heaving and his breathing growing deeper and more regular. Sherlock relaxed, and cocooned in a feeling of love and security, he allowed his mind to travel back to the past days and weeks, to his desperation, the utter bleakness which had possessed him, the drugs, and how John had rescued him, now, then, always, and in every sense of the word.

Emotions overwhelmed him, threatening to choke him. To not immediately suppress them was an unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant sensation. He wrapped his arm around John and gathered him close to his chest, their bodies pressed against each other from heads to toes. John sighed contentedly in his sleep, and in reaction to this Sherlock's heart leaped. Another sensation, he would have to dissect later.

'I wish I could tell you what you are to me.' he whispered. 'I can't - not yet. But I will learn, I always do. One thing I can tell you, though. Last night - us - is all I ever wanted.'

'I know,' John softly said. 'Same here.'

Silence.

'You're not sleeping?'

'I am now.'

Sherlock huffed, embarrassed, fighting the impulse to sulk. Instead he playfully slapped John's thigh.

'Oh, for God's sakes, John. Just shut up and sleep.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, my lovelies! Thank you all so much for reading and for your great feedback. I sincerely hope you enjoyed this little fic, I can only say that I loved writing it!
> 
> See you soon (maybe ;)
> 
> JJ xx

**Author's Note:**

> After having been witness to the wonderful talk John and Sherlock had in 'The Abominable Bride' I decided to write a little something. I'm a bit rusty and this was written quite quickly and it's really not much, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!  
> Feedback is very much loved - in fact, just as much as Sherlock loves John and vice versa.  
> JJ xx
> 
> P.S: You might have noticed that I switched halfway through the first chapter from Holmes/Watson to Sherlock and John to show their new-found connection. I was actually having difficulties deciding how to handle this 'Holmes/Watson'-thing as I'm only used to the modern version, but that's the result.


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